


Almost There (Goodbye John)

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Series: An Ugly Welcome Home [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the last word his tears began to fall again. Pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, every unpleasant emotion he thought he’d ever felt consumed him at once, a fire smoking, threatening to burn him out. His mind was trembling, leaving all trains of thought in their stations.</p><p>Every night he’d think about it. He’d think about the fact that he had the power to do it. Every night he thought about the man he’d follow anywhere, even into the unknown. Every night, John thought about it. </p><p>Formerly known as 'In the Afterthought'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost There (Goodbye John)

His stomach dropped. His eyes stared into another realm of the world. His heart clenched like a hand was gripping it like a vice. He fell into his mind, and his knees gave out. Lestrade’s face was grim and sunken as he told the news. Among the recipients of said news there were different reactions. Donovan; a moment of silence, and regret. Anderson; a small prayer. Lestrade; grief and the mourning of a friend. Myrcroft; a gentle sigh. Mrs. Hudson; tears aplenty. John; he was shocked. Lestrade had called John in to the yard and had him sit down in his office. After they sat down, he struggled a few times to break the news.

“John. Sherlock…He, John, Sherlock overdosed yesterday.”

He was in shock. His eyes had went wide as thoughts and memories of Sherlock swirled around his brain. His brilliance, his eyes, his curly hair, his deep voice, all the memories wrapped like a coiled snake in his mind, trying to make sense of what he’s just been told. When John came to, Lestrade was still watching him, waiting for some kind of reaction to the news of his best friend’s death.

When John gave none, Lestrade struggled with trying to find something to say, but came up blank. Involuntarily, the words “Are you okay?” came out. John’s eyes sparked a flash of anger at the question. Okay? Of course he’s not okay. Not only had his friend died once, but now he’d gone and killed himself again! How was he ever supposed to be okay?

“I need to see it.” He said, his mouth working faster than his mind. Lestrade nodded and stood up, obviously waiting for John to follow suit. Neither of them said a word as they headed down to the morgue. In the door, they caught Molly, with her face in her hands and tears running down her cheeks. On the metal table, covered with white cloth was obviously the body that caused her tears. Lestrade put a hand between her shoulder blades and gently led her from the room, figuring John would need time alone with the body.

John’s breath escaped as he stepped through the door and they caught Molly crying. His mind repeating, _no no no no_ over and over again like a mantra. After Lestrade and Molly left, he walked toward the table and sat at the stool that previously held the mortician. His throat was dry as he swallowed; his palms wet as he ran them up and down his jean-clad thighs. Slowly, he grabbed hold of the sheet, a rough scratchy, fabric and started to peel it back.

First he saw the hair, then the pale skin, almost translucent now. Lips, neck, chest, all revealed until he stopped at the waist. The thought suddenly hit him, _I’m looking down at Sherlock. I’m looking down at my **friend.** Oh god, oh god, oh god. Pulse. Check his pulse! _ And so he did, and his heart clenched to find there wasn’t one. There was no beating heart. There were no more fearless eyes, lazy grins, and bursts of vocal intelligence. There wasn’t any of that anymore because _he_ wasn’t anymore.

Somehow John ended up at Baker Street, though if you put a gun to his head, he couldn’t tell you how it came to be. Using his key, he unlocked the door and started to slowly mount the steps. He could hear Mrs. Hudson in her flat, but he remained as quiet as possible; this was something private that he needed to do alone. He reached the flat and walked inside. It was dusty; the particles disturbed by the ones that collected the body. Books and clothes lay scattered about, glass broken from being thrown against the wall, the house devoid of all food for god knows how long. Upstairs in his old bedroom, everything lay the same except the bed. The bed was crumpled like someone had been sleeping in it, telltale evidence that Sherlock had taken to spending his nights in the empty bed, devoid of all reason except for the fact that it smelled like _John._ Sherlock’s bed lay undisturbed; the door creaked when John opened it, from lack of use. He quickly turned around and shut the door, unable to handle that feat just yet. He walked over to the sofa and sat down. On the table lays a kit that contained syringes and small vials of liquid. Though strange that the police hadn’t collected them when they got the body, he figured Lestrade was holding them off on a thorough flat search until John gave the okay. On the floor, under the table lay a used syringe; the one that had taken his best friends life. John began to weep.

John fell asleep while he was crying, and eventually came to with a headache. Without a second thought, he went to make tea in the kitchen, subconsciously making two cups until he realized what he was doing. He returned to his place on the sofa and sat in silence, staring the syringes on the table with a hatred like nothing else. The table lay bare except for the kit, and a small stack of papers next to it. Slowly setting down his mug, he picked the papers up. All were folded into letter style, and all had a name on the front. A lump jumped into his throat as he came to his.

With shaky hands he set the other envelopes back onto the table and stared at his, his mind anticipating the words, and his heart expecting them to cut like a knife. After some time, he unfolded the paper and read the heart wrenching words on the cream paper:

**_John, it baffles me, really, your name. Four letters, and it is most common, but it’s you isn’t it? Such a simple accumulation of sounds can entirely make a person. A doctor, a soldier, a friend, all encompassed in four letters. The English language, as with all languages are of beauty. Such simple minds created something brilliant. In our case, 26 letters, and the infinite number of words they make, into the infinite number of combinations they can be strung together in. It’s music, it’s art, it’s beauty. Your silly little blog brought people to your mercy. Your emotions latched behind the words moved their emotions. And while it takes all that for them to sway, I’ve been deduced down to one word. John._ **

**_I’ve hoped you’ve found closure, though I cannot be certain since you’ve been so intent on forgetting me. I don’t blame you, John. If anything, I am completely at fault. I should have died then. Then you could’ve truly healed. But being the idiot I am, I neglected the knowledge that things change, because for me they so rarely do. Alone, for so long; and then you came, and John, you made me new, then back to the dark world that is loneliness, the tendrils of pain clutching at my heart, squeezing tighter each day, until surely I thought I’d burst._ **

**_I came back, and was expecting the old familiarity of what had become my life. I expected your pain, I expected to work, and become friends once again. Never did I think you’d water the tendrils that trapped me. Never did I think you’d nourish their growth. Never did I think you’d change your views so deeply. Because while you may have believed in me, and thought you always would; I came home to change your mind. You’ll see my pain, being the nurturer you are. But I don’t think you realize what you’ve done. I lost you. They got to you, and I simply became what they always saw. Dangerous. Psychopath. Freak. And with each word, the letters wrapped, tightly, so tightly John. And something finally clicked. And my brain was quiet. You did it, you finally did it. Of all the times I wanted the peace, of all the times I reached for a fix to stop it. It was you that were finally able to. And it didn’t help. Because with all the silence, I couldn’t think, reduced to idiocy, below even Anderson. And my syringe, well, it made me work again. What, for so long, helped me slow down, helped me speed up. And that is how I sit here now, giving my last words. My_ note _John, because isn’t that what people do? For all the things in the world I expected none of them had been you. With the tendrils tightening, they grow stronger with each word._**

**_I love you, John._ **

At the last word his tears began to fall again. Pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, every unpleasant emotion he thought he’d ever felt consumed him at once, a fire smoking, threatening to burn him out. His mind was trembling, leaving all trains of thought in their stations. All he could imagine was the pain. _Oh god the pain. Sherlock, he… He hurt so badly. I did it to him. Oh god, I did it to him. I did, didn’t I? I caused all this; if it weren’t for me…If it weren’t for what I did…he’d still be here._

John refolded the paper and left, unable to bear the surroundings of Sherlock’s and his home anymore.

He knew it. Of course he did, he knew he loved Sherlock whether that made him gay, bi, whatever. But he needed time. He said hurtful things to him, things he immensely regrets. But he needed time. He needed to sort out his feeling after his return, and he needed some space to do that.

 So he pushed, just like Donovan. He pushed to get that space, and god, did he regret it. It was only a month after his return from the dead, but John had continued living in his tiny flat that he rented across town. He lived his mundane life and tried to ignore his thoughts of Sherlock. Even though he wasn’t in his presence like he used to be, John’s mind always thought of Sherlock as an option. As someone who would wait forever for him, simply because the man didn’t have anyone else to wait for.

John felt anger at himself at the thoughts. Anger that he could be such a horrible man. Anger that he could’ve ever even thought about doing that to Sherlock. Anger that he was a bad enough man that he did do it. Time passed slowly. John returned to work, but it did nothing to distract his mind. Every waking and dreaming thought on the man he knew. The man he missed his chance with because of his own idiocy. He was depressed, and smart enough to know that he was. Smart enough to know that he needed help, smart enough to know what he should do, and stupid enough not to do it. He took leave from work after a few weeks of his return, using up saved holiday time. He sat in his flat, staring at the wall, all thoughts geared toward the man who had left. Every night like ritual, he’d take out his gun and stare at it. After an hour of staring he’d grab the weapon, the black metal cold in his hands. Every night he’d think about it. He’d think about the fact that he had the power to do it. Every night he thought about the man he’d follow anywhere, even into the unknown. Every night, John thought about it. Every night he considered it. Every night he’d talk himself out of it, put the gun away, and make it to the next day. Every day his list grew smaller. Every day he grew weaker.

Every day he thought, _One of these days. I promise, Sherlock. One of these days I’ll be strong enough. One of these days I’ll come. Just give me a few more. I’m almost ready._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the series! I hope you enjoyed it. I don't know what else to put here so.... Bye?
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


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